(no subject)
Title: Inferno
Author: kaitmaree77
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Inception
Warnings: heavy discussion of death, suicide and murder;
Shipping: Arthur/Eames
Summary: Arthur has died eleven times.
Notes: Another fic by me. I was pretty pleased with the end result. Were you? Let me know!
-
I did not die, and I alive remained not;
Think for thyself now, hast thou aught of wit,
What I became, being of both deprived. - Alighieri
-
Arthur has died eleven times.
The first time, he had woken shaking and swore never to explore subconscious realms again. That night he had slept restlessly, and woken in a drenched sweat. There remained no wounds in his chest where it had been so damn vividly pierced with bullet, and yet he was certain the sensation was as real as any of his own tangible touch.
The very next day when he hadn’t shown up to the meeting place, Cobb had come to his apartment and sat down beside him.
“It’s nothing,” Arthur swallowed, perfectly versed in lie. “I just don’t think I’m the man for the job.”
Cobb had just nodded, continued along in idle chat and promised him it was no big deal and he was sure they’d find some other position to utilise his expertise.
But before he had left, Cobb had turned back and sworn to him, “It only gets easier.”
-
Arthur must have been the exception.
He hated, hated dying in order to wake up. It was too real. He’d feel the quickening sensation of his heart in his chest, the unwavering desire to run, to fight back, to flee. Even if reality was a certainty, Arthur could not stand to even entertain the thought of dying.
He had been shot, blown apart, lit on fire and forced into the most indescribable, suffocating degrees of pain. He had died instantaneously, and he had suffered. Death had been of murder, sometimes, but more often mercy.
It did not get any easier.
While he could still dream without the aid of a foreign concoction of chemistry, Arthur used to have nightmares. Not as vivid as those they experienced in their line of work, but enough to drive him into an unshakeable, insomniac of a wreck.
He knew he’d quit if he wasn’t so damn addicted.
-
The first time Arthur died in Eames’ arms was his seventh death.
Mal had shot him in the stomach, and he was slowly bleeding out. Eames had raised his pistol to Arthur’s temple, regretfully promising him it’d be quick, painless and they’d meet each other on the other side, as they always managed to do.
Arthur had begged him not to pull the trigger.
“Don’t.” He’d stammered. “Just, we have to finish. We’ll be fine.”
“Darling, you’re useless right now. It’ll just end the pain - and you’ll wake up, just like new.” Eames had shifted again, waiting for the impending nod of consent.
“Just - no. Please.” Arthur was desperate. “Just let me fall asleep.”
Eames sang him a French lullaby and stroked his hair until Arthur was at last consumed by death.
-
If the others saw him getting better at it, Arthur prided himself on the fact he was evolving to hide it better.
He would laugh it off when they woke up, shooting a scathing glance at whoever his merciful assailant was before returning to perfect - no, relative - normality.
Arthur thought that maybe if he was in control, if he was the one to deliver the blow, pull the trigger, and slide the knife across his throat, it would be okay. That if he was the one responsible for his own undoing, the experience wouldn’t be so foul and remain so bitterly prominent in his mind for what seemed like an eternity.
Arthur had experienced so-called-eternity for the first time in Limbo. The sedative had been so strong; he’d missed the kick, and had been plunged into darkness and awoken on Cobb’s beach.
The days, months, years and decades spent there made Arthur believe he’d found the deepest levels of hell and was being punished for some terrible, unforgiveable act.
-
A night spent with Eames over cheap cigarettes and overpriced wine had revealed the truth of his maddening fear.
It was dark and they sat beneath the stars. Arthur could only make Eames out by the glow of his cigarette. The day had been long and exhausting, escaping some faceless company’s vengeful men via darting in and out of alleyways and leading seemingly endless chases throughout the Berlin streets.
Arthur could not stop playing with his die. Eames noticed this, and reached for his own poker chip. “Funny, isn’t it?”
Arthur snapped out of his own deep thoughts and glanced over at his colleague. “What? What’s funny?”
“Well,” Eames flipped his poker chip over onto his palm, and traced its edge with painful delicateness. “Everyone spends their whole lives searching for meaning, for proof of existence and we...”
Arthur just nodded for him to continue.
“Well, we let it all come down to a bloody poker chip and a die, don’t we, hm?”
Arthur snorted at that, took a sip of his wine and flopped onto his back. “I think it’s meant to be a bit more complicated than that.”
Eames shrugged, before he put out his cigarette and moved to straddle Arthur.
Arthur could taste the smoke on his breath as he kissed him.
“Everyone is so afraid of dying, of one last breath of air and yet you, you, Arthur, my darling -” Eames pressed his forehead against Arthur’s. “And yet you are so damn afraid of coming back to life.”
The Point Man shook his head. “What on Earth is that supposed to mean? I suppose you’re implying I’m strange for not wanting a bullet in my head every other day.”
“You’re tired of reality. Tired of limitations.”
A police car raced past, siren wailing its sorrowful and frantic song.
“You’re wrong.” Arthur found himself swallowing, struggling to pull out of the Forger’s embrace.
“Maybe, darling,” Eames murmured against his ear as Arthur relaxed back into his arms. “But you ought to know that you aren’t the only one so sick of the truth.”
The two men stayed quiet for a while like that. Taking comfort in the mere luxury of each other’s presence. It was Eames who spoke up again to break the silence. “I know it’s hard,” he said, voice soft and sincere, “you wake up and people are - well, people are people. Humans are a rotten bunch.”
Arthur just turned to face him again; it was much too dark to read the other’s expression.
“Don’t be afraid to live, Arthur,” Eames whispered, affection prominent in each and every mouthed syllable.
-
The next time Arthur died, he wasn’t so afraid.
-
Author: kaitmaree77
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Inception
Warnings: heavy discussion of death, suicide and murder;
Shipping: Arthur/Eames
Summary: Arthur has died eleven times.
Notes: Another fic by me. I was pretty pleased with the end result. Were you? Let me know!
-
I did not die, and I alive remained not;
Think for thyself now, hast thou aught of wit,
What I became, being of both deprived. - Alighieri
-
Arthur has died eleven times.
The first time, he had woken shaking and swore never to explore subconscious realms again. That night he had slept restlessly, and woken in a drenched sweat. There remained no wounds in his chest where it had been so damn vividly pierced with bullet, and yet he was certain the sensation was as real as any of his own tangible touch.
The very next day when he hadn’t shown up to the meeting place, Cobb had come to his apartment and sat down beside him.
“It’s nothing,” Arthur swallowed, perfectly versed in lie. “I just don’t think I’m the man for the job.”
Cobb had just nodded, continued along in idle chat and promised him it was no big deal and he was sure they’d find some other position to utilise his expertise.
But before he had left, Cobb had turned back and sworn to him, “It only gets easier.”
-
Arthur must have been the exception.
He hated, hated dying in order to wake up. It was too real. He’d feel the quickening sensation of his heart in his chest, the unwavering desire to run, to fight back, to flee. Even if reality was a certainty, Arthur could not stand to even entertain the thought of dying.
He had been shot, blown apart, lit on fire and forced into the most indescribable, suffocating degrees of pain. He had died instantaneously, and he had suffered. Death had been of murder, sometimes, but more often mercy.
It did not get any easier.
While he could still dream without the aid of a foreign concoction of chemistry, Arthur used to have nightmares. Not as vivid as those they experienced in their line of work, but enough to drive him into an unshakeable, insomniac of a wreck.
He knew he’d quit if he wasn’t so damn addicted.
-
The first time Arthur died in Eames’ arms was his seventh death.
Mal had shot him in the stomach, and he was slowly bleeding out. Eames had raised his pistol to Arthur’s temple, regretfully promising him it’d be quick, painless and they’d meet each other on the other side, as they always managed to do.
Arthur had begged him not to pull the trigger.
“Don’t.” He’d stammered. “Just, we have to finish. We’ll be fine.”
“Darling, you’re useless right now. It’ll just end the pain - and you’ll wake up, just like new.” Eames had shifted again, waiting for the impending nod of consent.
“Just - no. Please.” Arthur was desperate. “Just let me fall asleep.”
Eames sang him a French lullaby and stroked his hair until Arthur was at last consumed by death.
-
If the others saw him getting better at it, Arthur prided himself on the fact he was evolving to hide it better.
He would laugh it off when they woke up, shooting a scathing glance at whoever his merciful assailant was before returning to perfect - no, relative - normality.
Arthur thought that maybe if he was in control, if he was the one to deliver the blow, pull the trigger, and slide the knife across his throat, it would be okay. That if he was the one responsible for his own undoing, the experience wouldn’t be so foul and remain so bitterly prominent in his mind for what seemed like an eternity.
Arthur had experienced so-called-eternity for the first time in Limbo. The sedative had been so strong; he’d missed the kick, and had been plunged into darkness and awoken on Cobb’s beach.
The days, months, years and decades spent there made Arthur believe he’d found the deepest levels of hell and was being punished for some terrible, unforgiveable act.
-
A night spent with Eames over cheap cigarettes and overpriced wine had revealed the truth of his maddening fear.
It was dark and they sat beneath the stars. Arthur could only make Eames out by the glow of his cigarette. The day had been long and exhausting, escaping some faceless company’s vengeful men via darting in and out of alleyways and leading seemingly endless chases throughout the Berlin streets.
Arthur could not stop playing with his die. Eames noticed this, and reached for his own poker chip. “Funny, isn’t it?”
Arthur snapped out of his own deep thoughts and glanced over at his colleague. “What? What’s funny?”
“Well,” Eames flipped his poker chip over onto his palm, and traced its edge with painful delicateness. “Everyone spends their whole lives searching for meaning, for proof of existence and we...”
Arthur just nodded for him to continue.
“Well, we let it all come down to a bloody poker chip and a die, don’t we, hm?”
Arthur snorted at that, took a sip of his wine and flopped onto his back. “I think it’s meant to be a bit more complicated than that.”
Eames shrugged, before he put out his cigarette and moved to straddle Arthur.
Arthur could taste the smoke on his breath as he kissed him.
“Everyone is so afraid of dying, of one last breath of air and yet you, you, Arthur, my darling -” Eames pressed his forehead against Arthur’s. “And yet you are so damn afraid of coming back to life.”
The Point Man shook his head. “What on Earth is that supposed to mean? I suppose you’re implying I’m strange for not wanting a bullet in my head every other day.”
“You’re tired of reality. Tired of limitations.”
A police car raced past, siren wailing its sorrowful and frantic song.
“You’re wrong.” Arthur found himself swallowing, struggling to pull out of the Forger’s embrace.
“Maybe, darling,” Eames murmured against his ear as Arthur relaxed back into his arms. “But you ought to know that you aren’t the only one so sick of the truth.”
The two men stayed quiet for a while like that. Taking comfort in the mere luxury of each other’s presence. It was Eames who spoke up again to break the silence. “I know it’s hard,” he said, voice soft and sincere, “you wake up and people are - well, people are people. Humans are a rotten bunch.”
Arthur just turned to face him again; it was much too dark to read the other’s expression.
“Don’t be afraid to live, Arthur,” Eames whispered, affection prominent in each and every mouthed syllable.
-
The next time Arthur died, he wasn’t so afraid.
-